


Point Taken

by foundCarcosa



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-01
Updated: 2012-06-01
Packaged: 2017-11-06 12:04:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/418706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foundCarcosa/pseuds/foundCarcosa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Aveline Vallen / f!Hawke - not tonight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Point Taken

“Uh… hey. Aveline. How’s a couple hours at the Hanged Man sound?”

Aveline squinted up at the darkening sky. Whatever Varric was whistling mingled with the clink of coins as Fenris swiftly counted out that evening’s haul. The bandits had been tough, but none too shrewd, if one were to judge by the contents of their chests and purses.

“Mm. Not tonight, Dorian.” And Dorian Hawke scowled, but they kept walking, the shadows of grimy Lowtown buildings lengthening and then fading into the twilight.

Two evenings passed. On the third, Dorian snatched a dog-eared slip of paper off the pillar next to Worthy’s table.  
“Hey, check this out. Nug-eating contest.”

Varric spluttered, reaching to pluck the notice out of her hands, but she held it just aloft. “Down, Tethras. You got a nug fetish or something? Anyway, I _meant_ to say ‘arm-wrestling contest’. Sounds like your kind of thing, Aveline. Wanna go?”

Aveline’s brow wrinkled, and she glanced over. Dorian’s words had barely touched her preoccupation.  
“I— No, thank you, Dorian. I’m needed at the Keep after this. Let’s keep moving, shall we?”

 _So much for convenient placement and cunning lures._ Dorian pulled a face at the falsified notice before letting the wind take it.

In front of the mirror later that night, Dorian pulled faces again, then tried a smile. A twitch of the lips, enough to convey a passing touch of mirth but nothing more. She focused, squinted, but squinting only twisted the tremulous smile into a leering grimace.  
She gave up.  
“It would be an honour to… to have you… er.” Dorian flapped impatiently at the air, as if trying to bat the right word out of it. “ _Accompany._ Have you _accompany_ me to…”

All Dorian knew in Kirkwall was the Hanged Man, as far as entertainment was concerned.  
One did not extend a formal invitation to a rank-smelling tavern of questionable repute. Even if it was one’s favourite.

She dropped her shoulders and scowled ferociously at her reflection.  
When she’d first met the other redhead, she’d thought they were similar.

Ah, the bliss of ignorance.

It was a week before she tried again. Varric eyed her shrewdly as she tapped her foot and plucked restlessly at her bangs, waiting for the other woman to emerge from the Guard-Captain’s office.  
“Stop looking at me like that,” she grumbled reflexively, and reflexively, Varric made some little, genial comment and casually cast his eyes elsewhere.

Aveline clomped into view, lower lip slightly protruding in a pout that managed to put no dent in her tough-girl demeanour.  
“Hightown patrol, _again_. What’s a girl got to do to get some action around here?”

Varric clapped a hand over his mouth, but couldn’t suppress the knowing snicker. It didn’t matter — Dorian had already lunged, and the back of Aveline’s Fereldan armour collided noisily with the patterned wall.  
“What’s this about?” Aveline exclaimed, her hands going up in an automatic gesture of _Okay, I won’t hit you — yet_ , but the last syllable was barely out before Dorian’s mouth sealed off any further protest.

The wolf whistle was surely from the dwarf — or, perhaps, some guardsman who’d happened to pass through. Dorian didn’t much care, because Aveline’s lips tasted faintly of some kind of berry, and that was unexpected, and so was the slow melting after the initial tension, the hesitant dropping of hands to Dorian’s waist, the little throat-sound that marked a surrender.  
“ _Oh,_ ” Aveline murmured when they parted, as if the final puzzle piece had clicked into place, revealing the picture in its entirety.

“Y’know, Hightown’s got dark alleys too, same as anywhere.” Dorian’s coarse manner of speaking might not have been Aveline’s favourite trait of hers, but it got the point across.

“Let’s… discuss the route over drinks, shall we?” Aveline’s gaze swept the lobby furtively, spots of colour blooming high in her cheeks for a moment.

“I thought you’d never ask,” and the good-natured grumble was quickly overwhelmed by Aveline’s laughter — just as the rough-hewn Fereldan apostate had quickly been overwhelmed by a flame-haired warrior-goddess who’d muscled herself between a dark-haired templar and Death, and almost won.


End file.
